All this happened, more or less. The death, the resurrection. And I’m not talking about Jesus; we all know that didn’t happen. No, I’m talking about my black cat Michael Myers. Everything started on October 24th, 1871 – yes, I’m that old.
I was strolling through the park, my feet squashing the crunchy autumn leaves that blanketed the ground, when my gift – brilliance – hit me yet again. “It would be swell to have a household cat, wouldn’t it, dear Geraldine?”
“Oh yes, Thomas,” she exclaimed. “It would be swell indeed. What a brilliant idea!”